


Not a Photographer

by RandomlyAssigned



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21654658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomlyAssigned/pseuds/RandomlyAssigned
Summary: Dennis Creevey was not a photographer. His brother was. Dennis Creevey did not make it to the Battle of Hogwarts. His brother did.
Kudos: 8





	Not a Photographer

Dennis Creevey was not a photographer. At fourteen, he was the size of a typical second year, and any photos he tried to take would prominently feature upper backs and necks as he craned to get a good view. No, the photographer in the Creevey family was Colin.

But Colin had died a month ago, aged sixteen and ten months. He had survived petrification by a basilisk in his first year (Dennis still did not know what Professor McGonagall had done to convince Mr. and Mrs. Creevey to let Colin return to Hogwarts for his second year – or to allow Dennis to follow behind him the next year), a break-in by Sirius Black in his second, a murderous Death Eater professor in his third, Dolores Jane Umbridge in his fourth (Umbridge was not, per se, a threat to Colin directly, but Dennis thought he might explode from the pressure of staying silent during her jabs at Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore), a Death Eater infiltration in his fifth, and of course Colin, along with Mr. and Mrs. Creevey and Dennis, had spent the last year hiding from the Muggle-Born Registration Commission.

He had survived all of that, and then died in the early morning hours of May 2nd, 1998, fighting Corban Yaxley on the grounds of Hogwarts. Dennis was not there. When their DA coins had burned hot, Colin had locked him in the bathroom of the small hotel suite they had been sharing with their parents for four months. Dennis still did not know how Colin had made it to Hogwarts. His parents had woken up the next morning and discovered him in the bathroom. Colin had hidden Dennis’s wand in the bedside table drawer (not a particularly good hiding place, but where the wand was made no difference, so long as it was not with Dennis) and cast a Silencing Charm and Locking Spell on the bathroom door, but both must have ended with Colin’s death. A sleep-deprived, anxious Dennis had thought nothing of it until a red-eyed Seamus Finnigan had found them hours later. Colin had told Ginny Weasley where they were. Seamus, his face bruised and with a long purple gash on his left arm, had been the one to tell them about Colin’s death. About Voldemort’s death and Harry Potter’s triumph, as well, but Mr. and Mrs. Creevey had not really heard anything after Seamus had told them their oldest son was gone. Seamus had been the one to Side-Along Apparate Dennis to the Hogs Head Inn in Hogsmeade, where long ago he had snuck out to attend the founding meeting of Dumbledore’s Army. No one was there to meet them. Aberforth Dumbledore was recovering from the battle up at the school.

“Where did it happen?” Dennis had asked Seamus quietly as they reached Hogwarts’ gates. A grey-haired man in Auror robes, his body surprisingly free of visible wounds, had let them through once he saw Seamus.

“Neville and Oliver found him on the grounds. Oliver Wood, I guess you haven’t met him. He left the year before you came,” Seamus replied. Nothing else was said. When the pair walked through the doors of the Great Hall, Seamus nodded to Dennis and faded away, back to a corner of the Hufflepuff table where Dean Thomas sat holding a teacup. Professor McGonagall must have seen him, because a moment later, she was there.

“Mr. Creevey – Dennis – they found you,” she said, “Miss Weasley said you were in a Muggle hotel near Cork.”

“Colin locked me in the bathroom,” Dennis replied quietly. McGonagall only nodded.

“I am so sorry,” she said.

“Thank you,” Dennis said, his voice barely more than a whisper. It had not sunk in yet, Colin’s death. He was not sure what he was supposed to do, say, feel. Ask about the body? The funeral? The killer? He was only fourteen years old, and he wanted his parents. But he and Seamus had left them, alone in the Irish hotel, crying and waiting. A shining example of the life of parents of Muggle-born witches and wizards.

“Mr. Creevey,” a deep voice said. He looked up and saw a tall, unfamiliar black man striding towards him. “My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt. I’m sorry, we hoped to be more organized in notifying the families. I didn’t realize you had already been told.”

Dennis shifted his weight. “Seamus found me,” he said.

“Dennis,” McGonagall interrupted, “Someone from…well, not the Ministry, exactly. Someone will be sent to your parents. To bring them to Hogsmeade, and to help with the arrangements.”

Dennis only nodded. “Would you like to see your brother?” she asked.

Dennis found himself shaking his head. He did not exactly know why. “No thank you,” he forced the words out, “I would like to go with…with whoever is going to my parents.”

McGonagall looked at him, nodded, and said, “Come with me.”

Those next hours were a blur. He was introduced to an old wizard named Perkins, who sent off an owl and half an hour later a young woman met them at the Hogwarts’ gates. She had a name and some relation to a department of the Ministry – probably one to do with Muggles. Dennis did not remember either. She took him to Cork, met his parents, made a Portkey, and took them all back to Hogsmeade. A few other families were arriving – Dennis assumed they were also relatives of the dead and injured. It was all surprisingly efficient, that day and in the days to come, as funeral plans were made.

Colin was buried the morning of May 8th, in a small churchyard in Bredhurst. The Creevey’s had lived in Bredhurst, at least until they had gone on the run. Their house was intact, though Dennis could not fathom how. Had the Death Eaters not come looking for them when he and Colin failed to return to Hogwarts or present themselves before the Muggle-Born Registration Commission?

The funeral was Muggle, though wizards attended. Classmates of Colin and Dennis. Professor McGonagall. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron and Ginny Weasley. Most did not know what to say. There had been a lot of funerals, but Dennis had not attended any of them. He was home, with his parents, sitting silently in the living room, looking at photographs of Colin. Photographs taken by Colin.

“Dennis?” Ginny had said as they left the graveyard. She had given him Colin’s camera – the film magically duplicated so the Ministry could have a record. He had taken photos of the preparation and the battle, in addition to fighting. Dennis brewed the potion and developed the pictures, not particularly caring if the Ministry found out about his underage magic. No letter ever came.

No, Dennis was not a photographer, and he never would be. But he had always been good at art in primary school, before he went to Hogwarts. He and Colin both were surprisingly artistic for the sons of a milkman and a maths teacher. And in the long summer before his fourth year – he would have to repeat a year – he painted. He painted from Colin’s photos. Professor McGonagall, enchanting the coats of armor. Fred and George, grinning at each other with armfuls of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes (he had sent that painting aside, intending to give it to the Weasley’s one day, but not yet). Pansy Parkinson pointing at Harry Potter. Luna Lovegood in the Room of Requirement. Seamus’s face, bruised before the battle even began. Percy Weasley, embraced by his family.

When he ran out of battle photos, he kept painting. From memory, he painted rough landscapes of the views from the various hotel rooms of the past year – city skylines and rolling moors. It was reassuring to put paint to canvas, no matter how technically unskilled he was. He painted Hogwarts in all its glory, the boats of first years pulling up to the shores of the Black Lake. He painted Hogwarts as he had last seen it, pieces missing from the walls and trees pulled up from their roots. He painted Firenze’s classroom from his second year (he hadn’t taken Divination then, but Colin had told him about the magical classroom and together they had sneaked down to see it one evening).

Finally, he painted Colin. He painted the whole Creevey family, together, their faces a bit blotchy, the lines messy, the clothing rather plain and childish, but together and alive. It was his last painting of the summer. He had gone to Diagon Alley to purchase his school books – he was going back, no matter how much his mother pleaded – and found a book in Flourish and Blotts about magical painting. There was a charm to make the paintings move, much like the potion used to develop magical photographs. Dennis practiced on stick figure drawings over and over again. Still, nothing came from Mafalda Hopkirk in the Improper Use of Magic Office. Dennis wondered if she was dead. When he was finally satisfied, he burned the stick figure papers with a quick Incendio and set about charming the paintings from earlier in the summer. He watched Mrs. Weasley grab her son and McGonagall’s wand tracing spells. He wondered if the paintings would eventually talk, like Hogwarts, or only move like Colin’s photographs. Finally, he got to the portrait of the Creevey family. He looked at it for a long time, raised his wand, and then lowered it. He turned, and walked out of his bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen.


End file.
